


kill each other (like civilized people)

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8356519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: Ginny's got a problem. It would be unsportsmanlike if Mike didn't offer a helping hand.AKA: Baker's gonna be the death of Lawson and vice versa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I don't know what to tell you. Did I intend to write 6k words of smut? No. Did I anyway? Definitely.

If asked, Ginny Baker would have to admit that the majority of her sexual education came from scandalous, giggling conversations with Evelyn. And porn. Like a lot of porn. 

 

What else was she supposed to turn to? The thirty-odd men on her team who alternately wanted to fuck her or murder her for intruding on the sanctity of the nation's pastime? Yeah, right. And Evelyn may have been her first female friend in a long time, but there were limits to what Ginny was willing to ask a living, breathing human. So, the internet it was. 

 

It's not that she thinks porn is a realistic depiction of the kind of sex most people have (she's a 23-year-old who's never been to college, not stupid), but, hey. A girl's got needs. 

 

Needs that she has never been more aware of. 

 

After all, how does a young, healthy woman with a sex drive deal with being surrounded by men in peak physical condition all the damn time?

 

Pretty well, actually, but that's more because Ginny is as disciplined as they come. A little sexual frustration isn't enough to put her off her game. Okay. A lot of sexual frustration. Frustration that has no real outlet despite the constant presence of 24 guys who happen to make up a Major League Baseball team. It's not that she's got crushes on her teammates, it's just that she's a woman, attracted to men, surrounded by men, and none of them qualify as potential partners. It's definitely a matter of wanting what she can't have. 

 

(Ginny can ignore that there's really only one person who figures into all of this rationalizing. But when that one person happens to be your captain and mentor, it's definitely safer to think in generalizations.)

 

On top of all the other shit she has to deal with, it might just be the straw that breaks the camel's back. Because porn and her fingers can only get her so far, especially when what she really wants is a down-and-dirty, over-the-top, no-holds-barred night of passion. 

 

("Night of passion." Ha. Who is she kidding? At this point, Ginny would take fifteen minutes of tepid interest if she got an orgasm out of the deal.)

 

Ever since the photos leaked, though, Ginny's been reluctant to start dating. It's hard to want to get back out there knowing that some obscene number of people she's never met have seen her naked. And even if she weren’t under constant scrutiny by her team, the press, and the public at large, casual hookups have never really been her thing, no matter how desperate she's currently feeling. If they had been, she would have just fucked Trevor and sent him on his way. But, no. Of course not. 

 

Anyway, the fact of the matter is this: Ginny Baker is hard up. 

 

She can hardly remember the last time she had sex, let alone the last time someone actually got her off. All she wants is one lousy orgasm that’s not courtesy of her own hands or a couple AA batteries. Mostly, she's accepted that it's just not in the cards, though. Not any time soon, at least. 

 

Really, she’s used to it. It comes with the territory, first female player in the majors and role model to millions of little girls and all that. Ginny's pretty sure that role models don't spend an alarming amount of their downtime daydreaming about increasingly elaborate and unlikely sexual encounters, but she's new to the game. She couldn't say for sure. 

 

Why her sexual frustration has to boil over in the middle of a long roadtrip, when she doesn't even have her own bed as solace, she'll never understand. She's self-aware enough to know she's been snappish all day, nearly biting Miller's head off when he made some dickhead comment. The guys have finally stopped making comments about her period, at least where she can hear them, but she's sure they all think she's on the rag. It's not such a bad deal since it means they'll leave her alone for a bit and usually Stubbs will fork over some of his precious candy stash. 

 

Maybe a few days with minimal interaction will put her right, let Ginny get her head screwed back on. Let her stop thinking about how much she wants someone to fuck her brains out. Definitely stop thinking about a specific someone filling that position because it wasn't going to happen. Not with her career on the line. It's a high bar she sets herself, but Ginny is nothing if not an over-achiever. 

 

That was the plan. In fact, it still would be the plan except for the fact that Mike Lawson won’t leave her room. 

 

He’d shown up with an iPad, insisting they start reviewing strategy for her start against the Mets in three days. Ginny’d pleaded exhaustion, tried to shut the door and leave him in the seemingly endless hotel hall, but he’d muscled his way in and made himself right at home, launching into his thoughts on the latest scouting reports. 

 

"What's got your panties in a bunch, rookie?" he'd finally demanded. Apparently there was a limit to how long Mike Lawson could listen to his own voice, at least when he didn't have a captive audience. And Ginny, sullenly slumped in the corner of the couch, wouldn't qualify by anyone's standards. 

 

Because it seemed unlikely that he was going to drop it (based on her past experience of who Mike Lawson is as a person), she told him.

 

What? He _asked_. 

 

And that is how they got here, Ginny uncomfortably aware of just how close her captain and mentor is as he processes that bit of information.

 

“Y’know, there are things that can help you," he clears his throat, not quite believing what he's about to say, "take care of that."

 

"You mean a vibrator?" she supplies mulishly, picking at stray lint on the cushion. 

 

When he doesn't reply for a long moment, she looks up. He's staring at her like she's some sort of alien creature. She wants to blush about the same amount she wants to whack him over the head. She'd figured that Mike Lawson of all people wouldn't be put off just by mentioning a vibrator. Besides, he's the one who brought it up in the first place. Figures. 

 

Feeling a little vindictive—after all, if he didn't feature so heavily in her impossible fantasies, maybe she wouldn't be quite so on edge—she barrels on, "Of course I have a vibrator. I'm 23 without any time to date or hook up. And that's not even counting the pack of hyenas passing themselves off as press who hound my every move." 

 

She sounds so disgruntled, Mike almost finds it endearing. But, well. His mind's still stuck on the vibrator. 

 

Don't get him wrong. Mike Lawson is no prude. He knows his reputation. Took pride in it those first, bitter months into the separation. He likes to think he's moved on from that phase in his life, but still. He knows his way around female pleasure. 

 

The fact that women use vibrators isn’t some kind of mystical revelation. Hell, he’s had the chance to put one to work a time or three. Really, though, he’d never thought about one in conjunction with his rookie. 

 

Because that would have been downright unprofessional. And, more than likely, the kind of hole he’d never dig himself out of. 

 

(This ignores, of course, the fact that Mike Lawson is already in that hole. Has been for a while and even digs himself deeper every so often. It’s starting to feel downright homey.)

 

He’s already trying to figure out how to bleach this conversation from his brain, sure that he’ll never look at Baker the same, when she continues. 

 

“Besides, it’s not like I have a problem getting off. It’s just it would be better if someone else did it for me.” Ginny knows she struggles to open up to people. She tells herself that's all she's doing. Opening up. Pretending that she didn't just tell him about her vibrator because she wants to fuck him and can't. In fact, she's so deep in her rationalizations that she gazes at him steadily as she vents, not quite hearing the suggestion in her words. 

 

Her catcher, on the other hand, has no such problems. 

 

Distantly, Mike wonders if he’s somehow high. Is he hallucinating? Did Ginny Baker just proposition him?

 

“Are you—?”

 

Her eyes snap to his, mind catching up with her mouth. Ginny’s eyes widen and denials rush forth: “What? No!” But there’s a flush riding high on her bronze cheeks. Is it the lighting, or are her pupils dilated?

 

Might as well deepen that hole just a bit. He presses his luck: “Of course. That’d be—“

 

“Unprofessional. I wouldn’t—“

 

“No, no.” A beat. “If you were—“

 

“Which I’m not.”

 

“Sure. But if you were—“

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I mean. It wouldn’t have to mean anything.”

 

There's an agonizing silence before she finally murmurs a disbelieving “Really?”

 

“Nah. Just a friend. Helping out another friend.”

 

“Hmm,” Ginny hums, chewing on her lip uncertainly. It’s strange to see her so discomfited. Not since that first game when she looked so frantic, hunted even. Mike’s pretty sure he prefers this, even if he’s not quite sure how _this_ came to be. 

 

Finally, she nods. Mike can feel his mouth goes dry as she meets his gaze. 

 

“Say I say yes. That mean a friend’s gonna get me off, just like that? It’s not gonna change anything?"

 

Mike swallows down his automatic response:  _Would that be so bad?_ because where the hell did that come from? Instead, he smirks like the dirty old man that he's proving himself to be and says, "Just a friendly favor from me to you."

 

That seems to decide things. In a flash, Ginny pushes away from her corner of the couch to invade his space. Once she gets there, though, she hovers, not quite touching him. Like she's unsure of what to do. It's not a good look on her. So, Mike sets aside the iPad, skates a hand up her thigh, and cracks a joke.

 

“You gonna let me go over the scouting reports if I do this?” he asks like that’s all he wants. It’s definitely not, but if Mike knows his pitcher at all, he knows that she'll run for the hills if it seems like he's taking this too seriously. Not that he could blame her. She'll definitely be getting the short end of this stick. 

 

She huffs out a laugh, some of the awkward tension dissolving. “Yeah, all right, old man.”

 

“Then, okay."

 

He doesn’t kiss her. He’s pretty sure that if he kisses her, he’s never gonna stop. Mike has pretty good self-control, but he’s not willing to test himself when it comes to this. 

 

He’s also not going to fuck her. Weird as this situation is, he knows that’s one line they probably shouldn’t be crossing. Also, she definitely didn't ask for an old catcher with bad knees to fuck her. She asked him to get her off, which he is more than happy to do.

 

All he has to do is make Ginny Baker come. He could do that in his sleep. Actually, that might explain a lot about what is happening. Too bad he can’t pinch himself without raising some weird questions. 

 

Still, just because he won’t kiss her or put his dick inside her, doesn’t mean that Mike Lawson does not intend to show Ginny Baker a good time. 

 

He pulls her into his lap, tries not to groan at the feel of her weight settling on top of him. This is a terrible idea, but it's not like he's gonna stop now. Instead, he lets his hands roam, calluses catching on the smooth fabric of her ubiquitous workout clothes. Mike's known about the magic of yoga pants for years, but he'd never really thought that a sweat-wicking zip up would be doing it for him. And it really is. He tugs on the zipper with his teeth. 

 

She laughs, rocking back in his lap. Mike wants to pout—rookie laughing at his moves—but when he looks up to demand a little respect, his breath catches in his throat. Her head is tipped back, pressing her tits forward, which isn't even the best part of the view. It's not often that Mike gets to see Ginny Baker cut loose, and even if she's breathtaking all the time (all the damn time), this is something else. Because it's his hands on her that has made her face light up like the goddamn sun. It's hard to be annoyed in the face of that realization.

 

"Watch the beard," she giggles, hands coming down to rest on his shoulders. She feels dizzy, even though she's pretty sure that the rasp of facial hair over delicate skin shouldn't be enough to set her off kilter. She's also pretty sure that this is a terrible idea, but she's going to go through with it anyway.

"You love the beard," he reminds her, finishing the job he started and pushing the jacket off her shoulders. When he doesn't make a move to pull off her sports bra, contenting himself with sucking and scraping his teeth against the column of her neck while his hands find their way inside her leggings, Ginny takes matters into her own hands. Just as one, rough, broad finger brushes past the edge of her panties, she shimmies out of the tight lycra. The caress of cool air against superheated skin teases her nipples into tight peaks.

 

Mike growls at the sight. He'd planned on getting his hand down her pants and getting Ginny off as fast as possible, if only so he could escape with his sanity intact. He'd lost hope for his dignity the moment his cock started showing interest, which was the moment he realized his rookie pitcher had started talking about vibrators. But now that he's seen Ginny Baker topless, he's pretty sure he's not going to rest until he sees the rest of her, too.

 

That can wait, though, because his hand is down her pants. His plan could still work: 1) Get his fingers on her cunt 2) Get her off quick 3) Leave before he embarrasses himself. Even as he tells himself this, he finds that he wants nothing more than to ignore his sense of self-preservation. After all, Mike Lawson never thought that he'd ever get this far with Baker, he's gonna take what he can get. 

 

As a finger slips inside her, Ginny lets out what would be an embarrassing groan if she weren't so fucking pleased with everything right now. Not that she planned on guilting her captain into finger fucking her, but, hey. She can roll with the punches. A second finger joins the first and  _fuck_. How did she go so long without letting someone do this for her? 

 

Once the sheer relief and novelty wear off, frustration sets in. Ginny writhes on Mike's lap, trying to find a rhythm and an angle that works. She can't quite seem to find it. Don't get her wrong, it feels good, amazing even, but it doesn't feel like it's going to get her anywhere. Between the unfamiliar breadth of his hand between her thighs and the beard burn building in the valley between her breasts and the utter quiet in the room when the air conditioner cuts out, Ginny knows this isn't going to work. She gets it, she does. Straddling a man with her pants on isn't really making it easy on him. Or her, for that matter. There's not a lot of room for maneuvering. Good as it is, it's not quite enough. So why not set everyone up to succeed?

 

Mike drags himself out of the fugue state he'd sunk into—his fingers are  _inside_ _Ginny Baker!_ —when he feels fingers slide into his hair to tug his face away from her, frankly, phenomenal breasts. _Sports bras really don't do anyone justice,_ he thinks as he blinks blearily up into Ginny's frowning face. That puts him on his guard. Mike can't remember the last time a woman frowned while she was in bed with him. Or on a couch. 

 

Eh, semantics. 

 

"This isn't gonna work," she says and Mike can feel the bottom drop out of his stomach. It's not as if he's surprised, though. It's a miracle that she hadn't come to her senses before now. 

 

Carefully, Mike nods, extracts his hands from her pants. He tries to ignore the slick shine coating his fingers and the heel of his palm. Ginny clambers off his lap and bends to retrieve her zip up. Only, that's not at all what she's doing. In the past fifteen minutes, Mike's pretty sure his brain has short-circuited at least once, but this sight has got to prompt total system failure. 

 

Because there's Ginny Baker, fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings, dragging them down miles of smooth, bronze leg. And that's Ginny Baker, standing stark naked in front of a dazed Mike Lawson. 

 

Despite the growing conviction that this is all some kind of dream, that he's going to wake up any minute, extremely uncomfortable on the team bus, Mike drinks in the sight greedily. He knows there are pictures out there. He hasn't seen them. Had, in fact, threatened the entire 40-man roster with a fate way worse than rookie hazing if he caught wind of anyone even whispering about those pictures. After all, Mike was a pragmatist. There was no way he was gonna be able to keep a lot of those assholes from looking at her pictures. He'd shame them mercilessly, but they'd do it anyway because major league ballplayers could be dicks, too. 

 

Really, though, if those pictures were even half as hot as the real deal standing before him, Mike's not sure he can blame anyone for looking. 

 

(He can. He really, really can.)

 

Ginny reaches out to grab his hand. She tugs a little, nodding towards the pristine bed Mike had so carefully ignored to this point. "Just. Can we try—?"

 

It takes all of Mike Lawson's not inconsiderable self-control not to tackle her to the mattress then and there. Instead, he levers himself up, wincing when his knees fucking creak in protest. "You're the boss, Baker."

 

She levels him with an exasperated stare that turns to considering to smug in no time at all. "That so?" she purrs as Mike crowds up against her. He shuffles her towards the bed, palms the exquisite globes of her ass, nuzzles into the crook of her neck; loses his goddamn mind at all the skin on display. Pleasantly preoccupied, he hums his assent. It's not until he feels her questing hands skim across the sensitive skin of his stomach that he thinks to pay attention to what she's saying. "If I'm in charge, then this is coming off." Ginny tugs at his shirt, getting it all the way up to his chest before he gives in and pulls it off the rest of the way. She lays her hands on his belt buckle, and this.  _This_ is how Mike Lawson is gonna die. She grins up at him, unaware of just how much she's affecting him. That grin, though. It's light in a way he's not quite used to but wants to be. "These, too. Not really fair if I'm the only naked one, here." 

 

He heard the lady. 

 

He shucks off his pants, but leaves the boxers in place. This has already gone so much further than he'd ever dreamed, but he's got to cling to the idea that they won't go  _that_ far. For his sanity and to make sure that hole he finds himself in isn't actually his grave. 

 

Finally, he lowers himself to the plush mattress, props himself up on his side, and raises an eyebrow at Ginny, who stares unabashedly. 

 

_This is the guy you put up on your wall_ , is one of many thoughts that run through Ginny's mind. It's probably the only one that has even the veneer of innocence. After all, 13-year-old Ginny Baker didn't put a poster of her crush on the wall, just her baseball hero. 

 

(That 17-year-old Ginny Baker had discovered the two weren't mutually exclusive wasn't _that_ important.)  


 

"Enjoying the view, rookie?" he drawls, gratified in a way that should give him pause. It's always a nice stroke to the ego when a pretty woman gives him the once over, but the look in Ginny's eyes is a different beast entirely. The tent in his boxers pulses insistently, not used to being ignored for so long. This isn't about him or his dick, though, even if it stirs again as Ginny slides in next to him, her warm curves (for someone with such ridiculous muscle tone, she's still pleasingly soft) plastering against his body. Mike might be a narcissist, but he's not a bad guy. He knows when something just isn't about him. 

 

(The fact that it took meeting and getting to know Ginny Baker to embrace this kind of attitude is better left unexamined. Particularly when he's got her flushed and wet and wanting right beside him.)

 

Mike gets to work, sure that if he doesn't, he's going to embarrass himself in the very near future. It's not a great angle, for all that it's better than when they were on the couch. Still, Mike Lawson is nothing if not game. If Ginny Baker wants to come, then, by God, he's going to make her come. 

 

He knocks her knees apart with his hand, buries his face in her shoulder as his fingers hone in on her dripping cunt. She whines a little behind her teeth, hips flexing, as he plunges back inside. He strums his thumb across her clit, relishing in the way her breathing hitches and she fucking  _pants_ into the otherwise quiet room. Mike turns his face, watches as his fingers disappear inside her, pull out covered in her juices. He wonders what she tastes like and immediately works his hand double time to chase that thought out of his mind. 

 

For her part, Ginny hardly feels like her brain is connected to her body. All she knows is sensation: the heavy, delicious drag of Mike's fingers inside her, the rasp of his beard at her collar bone, the tremor in her thighs as something like a tidal wave builds inside. Distantly, the thought crosses her mind that  _this is so much better than my vibrator_. 

 

And it is. The solid bulk of someone beside her, coiling a spring and egging her on is so much better than the vaguely self-conscious orgasms she can achieve on her own. The fact that the solid bulk belongs to Mike Lawson is neither here nor there, not as long as his fingers keep doing—

 

 _That_. 

 

Ginny shakes and gasps and clamps her thighs around his hand as she comes. Her hips actually lift off the bed and hover in the air for a moment before she goes boneless. Her weight settles and she pants from the exertion. It's about the hottest thing Mike's ever seen.

 

"You good?" he asks the skin of her neck, fingers gentling her through the aftershocks. She hums a little and he expects that to be that. They'll get dressed, awkwardly go over the scouting on the Mets, and part ways until morning. Well, that's what he thought until she wiggles in his loose grip, turns to face him. That face of hers really is too close for comfort. When her tongue darts out to wet her lips, Mike would hardly have to shift and she could wet his, too. And there's a dangerous thought if he's ever had one.

 

"Will you go down on me?" She forces herself to meet his eye as she makes her request. Ginny Baker is a grown ass woman, asking for what she wants in bed shouldn't make her want to stammer like a schoolgirl. And yet, here she is. 

 

Still, it's not like a little shyness is going to keep her from asking. Call her greedy, but while she's got a willing partner in her bed, Ginny intends to milk this for all it's worth. After all, who knows when she'll get another chance? (At sex in general or sex with Mike Lawson, she's unwilling to speculate.) 

 

She doesn't look away, not as Mike's eyes darken and not as he flops onto his back, arm tossed dramatically across his eyes. 

 

"You're gonna be the death of me, rookie," he groans, but recovers quickly. "Yeah, all right. Where do you want me?"

 

"Oh. Um." All of her bravado swirls down the drain at his easy acquiescence. It's not that she thought he'd refuse, but Ginny doesn't have the most experience with this kind of situation. (Girl talk and porn, remember?) Whenever she and Trevor had sex, things just happened. There wasn't a lot of discussion on the matter. Which probably should have been an indication of the state of things. Back to the matter at hand, though, Ginny gestures vaguely at the side of the bed. "You could—"

 

Mike snorts. “Yeah, sorry, but I’m not abusing my knees by kneeling on the ground. Not even for you.”

 

She huffs in annoyance and demands, “How do you propose we do this, then?”

 

Mike sends her his filthiest grin, settling back against the pillows, hands tucked behind his head. “Climb aboard, Baker."

 

It's Ginny's turn to short-circuit. She pushes herself up so she can look down at him, doesn't miss the way his eyes rake over the sweat cooling on her skin. The raw desire in his gaze makes her feel powerful. Almost as powerful as when she takes the mound at the beginning of a game. She's not sure which one feels better. They're both good. The problem is that the look in his eyes also makes her want to melt into a quivering pile of jelly, let him have his way. Whichever would happen, though, Ginny can't deny the rush of liquid warmth running down her thighs, doesn't really want to. 

 

Mike raises an eyebrow when Ginny doesn't move at his invitation. That, apparently, is enough to jog her to action. She scrambles up and settles herself on top of his face, presses her palms against his bare chest for balance. 

 

Ginny Baker seems hellbent on making this as hard as possible on him. Her wet pussy up against his face is something of a dream come true, and,  _sweet Jesus_ , does she taste good. But she's seated herself upside down, facing his feet rather than the headboard. While Mike has certainly faced greater sexual mountains to climb, it wasn't until the opportunity was gone that he realized how much he'd been looking forward to licking a hot stripe up her cunt, ending right on top of her sensitive clit. Okay, maybe he's been thinking about this a little too much. Rather than lose himself in the could-have-beens, Mike buckles down, curls his arms over the top of her thighs so he can spread her open. He starts gentle, unsure of how sensitive she gets after she comes, doesn't want to overload her. Not when that means that this interlude might end. 

 

All that goes out the window the instant Ginny Baker's curious little fingers curl into the waistband of Mike's boxers. 

 

She'd run her fingers through his chest hair, gratified that it was just as soft as she'd imagined. Her hands roamed further, tracing his rib cage, the faint outlines of a bruise on an oblique, the dark trail of hair leading into his underwear. The more she'd looked, the more she'd wanted to know just what Mike Lawson was packing. Because whether she liked it or not, Ginny was still in the minority when it came to knowledge of Mike Lawson's junk. Sure, she'd seen him in his compression shorts, grimacing on the massage table as a physical therapist tried to work his body back into order. It wasn't as if she was paying much attention to his dick at moments like those, though. But what better opportunity to satisfy her curiosity than when he's got his face buried between her thighs? So, she releases him from the confines of his boxers. 

 

"What're you doin', rookie?" he growls into the skin of her thigh. No matter what she was up to, he couldn't bring himself to pull away any further. The way she shudders against him is the best kind of ego boost, has him licking smugly into her, relishing the way she grinds against his mouth and bites down on a moan. Yeah, he's gonna make Ginny Baker fall apart with just his tongue. Even if no one else can ever know, Mike will know. Ginny will know. He'll know what she tastes like when he drives her over the edge. She'll know just what he's capable of.  _Fuck yes_ that's a stroke to his ego. 

 

Speaking of strokes.

 

" _Fuck_. Baker!" 

 

"That's the idea, cap," she teases, her lips close enough to his dick that he can feel the puff of air on that last "p." Her rough, talented,  _priceless_ fucking hand is wrapped around his cock, jacking him off like it's some kind of experiment. Ginny squeezes and lets off the pressure, pumps up and twists her wrist, flicks her thumb and drags that callus over his head. Helplessly, his hips stutter into her hand and she laughs, low and seductive. Her weight over him shifts and Mike holds his breath, knows what's coming and still can't quite believe it. The curly spill of her hair drags across his stomach, against boxers still bunched on his thighs. Mike tries to keep his mouth working, but it's hard when he can feel her angle his cock and then— _Jesus Fucking Christ!_  Her tongue is on his dick. Let him repeat: Ginny Baker's mouth is on his dick.

 

Yeah, this woman is gonna be the death of him. 

 

He gathers his wits against the pressure building low in his belly, pressing up against the small of his back. Mike's no young buck. A few kitten licks shouldn't be enough to have him so worked up. That's what he gets for falling into bed with Ginny Baker. 

 

"You keep that up and there won't be any fucking, rookie." 

 

He says it not because he actually intends to fuck her if she stops, but because he can't figure out a better way. It's not like he's at his sharpest with Ginny's tongue fluttering against his dick. 

 

She hums in thought and Mike nearly shouts at the buzz against an already sensitive area. 

 

Ginny doesn't really care whether or not Mike fucks her right now, not with his mouth still working her over, pulling pleasure from depths that haven't been plumbed in longer than she cares to admit. What Ginny really wants is to make him feel even a little of what she is. So, she continues to mouth at him, whimpering a little when his fingers tense on her thighs. In retaliation, Mike's tongue goes relentless, lashing against her clit. Ginny finally cries out, buries her face in Mike's hip to muffle the desperate sounds leaking from her lips. 

 

As Ginny's second orgasm of the night washes through her body, Mike can't even bring himself to mind that her hand falls, clutches at his thigh as she rides out the last of the tremors. 

 

When she finally quiets, Mike presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh and smacks her gorgeous ass to cover his tender slip up. Thankfully, Ginny chuckles and pats his hip in acknowledgement. She drags herself off his face.  Mike sinks against the pillows, stares up at the ceiling in stunned silence. 

 

Of course, though, Ginny Baker can't leave well enough alone. 

 

She crawls down his body, settles just above his hips. When her hand wraps back around his dick, stroking more intently than before, Mike props himself up on his elbows. He ignores the twinge in his back to take in the view of Ginny Baker's perfect ass resting on his stomach, her waist giving way to a muscular back and powerful shoulders. 

 

"What're you doin'?" Mike asks for the second time of the night. 

 

She looks back over her shoulder with a wicked grin. "Just returning the favor, Lawson." 

 

And, Christ. This might as well happen—just so he doesn't do something really stupid, like listen to the voice in his head saying maybe it's not such a terrible idea to fuck Baker—so Mike collapses again, concentrates on the slightly too rough drag of her palm against his cock, the slick rub of her pussy on his stomach. Honestly, he's surprised he hadn't blown his load when she had her mouth on him. Anything beyond that was an exhibition of heroic restraint, so he doesn't fight down the rising tide of pressure the way he usually would. 

 

Which is how Mike Lawson finds himself spilling all over Ginny Baker's hand. 

 

She makes a soft sound of approval and  _fuck_ , Mike's heart swoops. That's when he realizes just how deep the hole he's been living in has gotten.

 

Trying to wrestle down both mounting panic and a desire to curl up around his rookie and sleep for eleven hours, he nudges her off him, reaches for the box of tissues on the bedside table. While he cleans himself up, Baker pads into the bathroom. Mike knows her juices are smeared across his face, in his beard, and forces himself to wipe it away with another tissue. That he'd considered using his fingers and licking them clean was a step too far. Probably several steps.

 

He hears the faucet go as he rearranges his boxers and redresses. There's a good chance that if Ginny comes back in the room and he's still naked, a line is going to be crossed. Another line because there are definitely a few in the rearview from his perspective. 

 

Mike perches on the couch and wants to laugh at the different picture he must paint compared to where he'd started this evening. He definitely did not expect this turn of events when he'd shown up at Baker's door. He clutches the abandoned iPad, convinced that it's the only thing that will protect him from the shitty decisions he could make in the next few minutes. 

 

Finally, Ginny reemerges. She's got on a loose, soft, ever-so-slightly see through top and the tiniest shorts known to man. Mike would know. He's seen a lot of tiny shorts in his time. The long, toned, powerful legs these shorts display, however, look better than anything else he's ever seen. Except maybe the dark shadow of her nipples, just visible through the sheer fabric of her shirt. 

 

What isn't great is the way Ginny hesitates when she sees him, expression guarded.

 

Ginny Baker hovering in the doorway of her hotel room's bathroom is vulnerable in a way he's not used to and doesn't like. He wants the steel in her eyes when she's down in the count, when bases are loaded and her team needs the out, not this uncertain, nervous timidity. What Mike Lawson really wants, though, is not to be the reason for that look. 

 

He waves the iPad through the air, a little wilder than he intended. "You gonna let me go over these batters now, rook?" He maintains eye contact while he asks, tries his best to convey (almost) everything he's feeling. 

 

_This only means what you want it to._

 

_We shouldn't have done this._

 

_I don't regret it._

 

Whatever she sees, it must be enough because the tense line of Ginny's shoulders slackens and some of the worry on her face melts away. The smile she offers him has nothing on the way she looks on the field some days, but it's a start. "Sure you can stay awake for it, old man?" Despite the teasing, she settles down on the couch next to him.

 

He rolls his eyes and flips open the cover for the tablet. "Don't go thinking you're suddenly hot shit, rookie."

 

"Oh, sorry. Somehow I thought that I wasn't the one who was just reduced to begging for a handjob. My mistake," she sniffs airily. 

 

He's a little surprised she brings it up so casually, especially after her uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, but can't help the relief that floods his system. This isn't going to ruin them. That's when the specifics click into place.

 

Mike frowns, can't remember begging her for anything, but wouldn't be surprised if he had. He's always been mouthy in bed. Used to drive Rachel up the wall. Still, he glowers at the pitcher for effect. "Don't start feeling special. It doesn't take a lot for me to run my mouth. Hell, sometimes I run my mouth when there's no one there to hear me." Not necessarily true, but Mike wants to see her laugh.

 

She doesn't, but he can see the glimmer of amusement. Close enough. "But _I'm_ the one who got you off."

 

As soon as she says it, Ginny hears the underlying implication: _I'm_ the one you were begging. 

 

She'd be lying if she said it hadn't been a turn on, his voice rasping out her name ( _"Gin, Gin!"_ ) and pure filth. Still, she's not sure that she really wants him to acknowledge it, curses herself for bringing it up, even obliquely. This will be hard enough to leave alone without knowing whether it mattered that it was her, Ginny Baker, making him, Mike Lawson, lose control. 

 

Mike hedges: "Yeah, once."

 

"Huh?"

 

"I got you off twice and you only managed once. Can't go getting cocky on me if you can't even keep up."

 

The teasing feels good, close to the usual banter they trade in the locker room or bullpen. Which is why it's worrying when Ginny goes quiet, considering. She's quiet through the rest of the Mets lineup, hardly offering any of her usual pushback. She's quiet up until she ushers him out of her room and leans against the doorjamb as he hovers outside the door.

 

"What you said—"

 

He groans. "It was a joke, Baker."

 

"No," she frowns shaking her head. Mike's eyes definitely don't zero in on the way the movement affects other parts of her body. "You were right. I guess it means..."

 

When she doesn't finish the thought, Mike pushes her, wanting to know what has brought out her calculating face. It's a face that usually spells trouble for someone. He's got a sneaking suspicion about who's in trouble here. "Means what?"

 

Her sly response comes just as she closes the door, leaving him no room for argument, not unless he wants to argue with the sterile hallway walls: "Just means I owe you one."

 

Dear God. Ginny Baker really is going to be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hole is where i live now. I don't mind it, though.
> 
> if you, too, have fallen in this Bawson hole, leave me a comment and we can hunker down together. Here or on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com)
> 
> also, please let me know if you find any typos! I think I got them all, but an extra set of eyes is always appreciated. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter the circumstance, Ginny Baker does not enjoy being down in the count.

In retrospect, Ginny should have foreseen the way Mike goes out of his way to avoid her in the days after they… traded favors. It’s not as if they’re particularly good with navigating awkward situations. After all, after the whole Amelia/Nike debacle, she’d avoided him for weeks. It set a precedent. 

 

One that currently is not working in her favor.

 

Because her last two starts have been sub-par at best, and she's pretty sure she knows the reason why. 

 

It's Mike. Just, not in the way that Evelyn might think. If she ever gets around to telling Evelyn what happened in New York. Which seems like a pretty terrible idea.

 

It's not that Mike has taken avoidance to a new level—seriously, the man could probably win Olympic gold at this point. Ginny spent her childhood with moody, aging ballplayers. She knows how to handle them. What bothers her is this whole favor business.

 

Because she _really_ does not appreciate having this outstanding favor looming over her head. Sure, she'd meant it as a parting shot in New York, but there'd been a kernel of truth to it, too. Ginny's no accountant, but she is always aware of just how much she owes to everyone around her. And, yes, one little favor should probably not throw off her game so much, but,  _God!_ What a favor it had been. 

 

And if she's extra annoyed because a certain someone promised things wouldn’t change, well, that's her prerogative. Because things had definitely changed. Lawson is suddenly at first more often than not, leaving Ginny and the rest of the bullpen to get used to Duarte. She would ask what the hell he's thinking with a playoff push on the line, but she hasn't had a chance to press her captain on the subject. Or any subject, for that matter.

 

She hardly saw him the rest of their New York road trip. Mike went so far as to tell Skip to put Duarte in for her start against the Mets, claiming his back was acting up. He’d still dressed for the game, sat in the dugout despite the unexpectedly chill air. He’d also refused to look her in the eye the entire three hours. 

 

Now, they’re back in San Diego and Ginny hasn’t gotten much more out of her team captain. 

 

She won't lie to herself. It's frustrating. She's come to rely on Lawson, which she doesn't really want to think about, but is true nonetheless. Ginny misses the phone calls and the joking on the bench, the mound visits and the built-in road trip buddy. Ginny misses Mike Lawson. Frustrating.

 

But not more frustrating than knowing he still has a favor to call in. 

 

The idea that he might never speak to her again is only annoying because that means he might never trade in her favor. Really. It's Mike: 2 and Ginny: 1. It's not a great feeling. Worse than being down in the count at the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded. 

 

(If Ginny's aware she's being melodramatic, she would never admit to it.)

 

Obviously, she can't just let the situation stand. 

 

In the end, it’s not that hard. She lets him overhear her telling the trainer that she needs to reschedule her session for the next day. She’d been hoping that Mike would show up to their usual pre-game workouts, but he’s been suspiciously absent since coming back to Petco. Still, she remembers what he says about needing to work harder than nearly everyone else. He’s gotta be itching to get into the gym. 

 

Sure enough, when Ginny strolls into the training room the next morning, there he is, already working up a sweat on the treadmill. 

 

Mike Lawson at least has the good grace not to look surprised at her sudden appearance, though he doesn’t look happy about it. 

 

“Baker,” he greets, punching up the speed on his machine. 

 

Ginny narrowly escapes rolling her eyes. Just the fact that he hadn’t leapt off the humming belt and bolted was progress. If time to readjust is what he needs, she can give him that. 

 

But really, she isn’t sure what he’s so skittish about. Does he think she’s going to turn all clingy and sappy just because he’d gotten her off a couple of times? She was already weirdly dependent on him before she crawled into his lap and let him relieve some of her stress, it's not like their lives can get much more entwined. Plus, the man has been married, how scared of commitment can he be? Not that she wants a commitment beyond what's outlined in his contract with the Padres. Ginny might not have much experience in the casual sex department, but even she knows a repeat performance probably isn’t in the cards.

 

Which, she's honest enough to admit, is too bad. Not because she’s harboring _feelings_ , but because that night really had done wonders for her outlook on life. Going into her start against the Mets, right up until Al told her Duarte was catching, at least, she’d felt perfectly at ease. Not at all inclined to bite off one of her teammate’s heads for a boneheaded comment. 

 

Rather than give voice to any of these thoughts, Ginny merely nods at her captain and starts her own workout. She can play the long game, be patient.

 

For his part, if Mike hadn’t already been sweating when Ginny Baker walked through the door, he’s pretty sure he would have started immediately. And it would have been only 30% because of the way her legs look in spandex. 

 

Honestly, does the woman own anything that isn’t designed to cling to her skin? 

 

The image of that nearly see-through shirt flits through his brain and Mike misses a step. He grits his teeth and keeps running, though if he were smart, he’d do it off the treadmill and as far away from Ginny Baker as possible.

 

Because, really. What had possessed him to suggest that she relieve all that pent-up sexual frustration with him? Of all people. He should have been out the door the moment the word “vibrator” passed her lips. Clearly, he’d lost his mind and had yet to find it. 

 

Which is why he’d stepped back. The distance is pure self-preservation, though it seems Baker’s got other ideas if she’s ambushing him now. He'd thought he'd been sort of subtle. Not like she was when she found about him and Amelia, at least. Anything short of declaring World War III would have been more subtle than that, though. Unfortunately, having to give the cold shoulder wasn't any better than being on the receiving end.

 

Those first few days were the worst. Every time he passed by her hotel room, flashes of memory bombarded him: the give of her nipple between his teeth, the warmth of her inner thighs, the sharp exhale of a gasp. More than once, he found himself hovering outside her door, fist poised to knock. It was too much. So, he told Al to put in Duarte. Partly because he wasn't sure he'd be at his best, but mostly  because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to handle Ginny staring deeply into his crotch for three hours. That he’d then had to watch her do it to Duarte was an uncomfortable experience he had no wish to repeat. He did, though, because his head  _still_ isn't on straight around Baker. 

 

(That his head might never be on straight around Baker is an entirely unhelpful thought that he can't shake.)

 

“So, how far’ve you gone?” she asks, stretching out a quad and breaking into his morose thoughts.

 

He chokes and realizes his mind is so far in the gutter, he’s probably been washed out to sea. “Four miles,” he grunts. 

 

Ginny frowns. Usually, his knees can’t take much more than two on the treadmill. She leans over the handlebar and decreases the speed on the machine. When he raises an eyebrow at her, she grins easily. “Can’t have you wearing yourself out too early. Bet I can do more burpees than you.”

 

It’s tempting, Mike knows, to accept the offer she’s making. Go back to their easy rapport. He can see the shade of anxiety in her eyes, too, which only serves to make him feel like a dick. But wouldn’t he be an even bigger dick to let himself get in over his head with this woman? To potentially ruin her future in this game for a little temporary fun?

 

(Mike knows that what he feels for Ginny Baker is anything but temporary. Still, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve anything more than temporary, doesn’t think he deserves even that, to be honest. Not with Ginny, at least.)

 

Too bad Mike Lawson’s always been a bit of a dick. 

 

“Oh, rookie. You are on."

 

They cycle through their usual circuits, hitting weight training, cardio, and conditioning in equal measure.

 

Ginny cracks a few jokes, watches as her captain’s indifference fades and he trades barbs with her. Slowly, he starts to relax. 

 

It’s great. 

 

It’s not. 

 

That thing about patience and how Ginny was really good at it? Yeah, that was bullshit. A pipe dream if she was being kind. Ginny Baker is not a patient woman and she wants to know what the fuck is up with Mike Lawson. Why does he get to be the one suspicious of her every move when he’s the one acting weird?

 

She waits until he's got the barbell on the ground because she's feeling petty, not cruel. 

 

( _Maybe_ , she tells herself, _if he hadn’t had his head so far up his ass, I would have let this go_. But he hadn’t and she’s not, so what’s the use of speculating?)

 

"You ever gonna call in that favor?”

 

His head whips up so fast, the vertebrae of his neck creak in protest. He plays dumb, despite the violence of his reaction. “What favor?” 

 

Ginny suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, but only barely. 

 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She pauses, gives him a once over and grins wickedly, “Unless dementia really has set in.”

 

“Ha fucking ha.” He starts his next set of lifts, eyes straight ahead. 

 

Oh, if he thinks this is over, he’s got another thing coming. 

 

“Lawson.”

 

“Whaddya want from me, rookie?” he growls, letting the weight thunk to the floor. 

 

“For starters, it’d be great if you’d actually look at me when I talk to you.”

 

Reluctantly, Mike shifts his gaze from the point over her shoulder to her face. Ginny Baker looks pissed. Flushed and sweaty (good), but pissed (bad). Once again Mike finds himself wondering how she can look so good while he feels like dying. 

 

“There.” She smiles thinly. “Are you ready to start treating me like a normal human being again?”

 

He nods. There’s no point in denying that he’d been weird and distant. And no point in denying how much it gutted him, either. 

 

“Look. We can’t turn back time and I don’t really see the point in pretending it never happened, but we don’t have to make it into a bigger deal than it is. Right?”

 

“Right,” he concedes. Which is as baldfaced a lie as Mike Lawson has ever told. That night was a huge fucking deal. If only because he’s pretty sure he’ll never look at her without also knowing what she tastes like as she falls apart. 

 

“So, are you ready to get over yourself?” 

 

“Baker, you don’t have to—“

 

“No! I”—she swallows, wishing her throat weren’t so dry—“I want to. It’s only fair.”

 

“You really think I need to rely on your favors to get laid?” he asks. It's true. Mike has gone out and pretty much fucked a woman a day since he left Ginny Baker's New York hotel room. He doesn't really want to tell her that just to prove a point because he's not sure what point it proves. Sure, he has no problem getting women into bed, but he'd be lying if he said any of those interludes were particularly satisfying. That he hadn't had to choke back her name a time or two.

 

So, he wills her to drop it. Because if she keeps pushing, he might snap. Might crowd her up against the mirrored wall and remind her exactly _why_ she owed him that favor in the first place.

 

“Who said that all favors are sexual?” she retorts. "Get your mind out of the gutter, old man."

 

(Whether or not Ginny had been hoping for another night like the first is immaterial. All she wants is her team captain to decide on a fucking favor so she can focus on her game. 

 

Mostly. It's mostly what she wants.)

 

Mike regards her inscrutably for a moment before nodding. Ginny fidgets a bit until he cracks a grin. "You're gonna wish you'd let this go."

 

"Nah. Hate being in debt to someone."

 

That she considers two hurried orgasms a debt of some kind is hilarious in its own right, but the wrinkle in her nose is what does him in. Mike hoots with laughter and manages to gasp, "We'll see how you feel after I make you clean my gutters."

 

"Your gutters?" she yelps in disgust.

 

"Hey, you can't expect my old ass to climb up there and clear 'em out."

 

"Can't have you breaking your hip," she agrees, finally grinning. Mike glares, but it feels closer to normal than they've been in days. 

 

 _ This is dangerous, _ his conscience tells him as he nearly gets lost in her laughing eyes. But the sheer fact that Ginny didn't just write him off in spite of what a dick he's been, is too momentous to ignore. So, he doesn't. He'd thought that if he left her alone, didn't pull her down into this hole with him, then maybe he'd be the good guy. He really wants to be the good guy. 

 

But Ginny Baker makes her own decisions, no matter what Mike Lawson has to say about it.

_Fuck it_ , he tells his conscience and challenges his rookie to a pull up contest.  


 

* * *

  

Things get better after that. Closer to what they were, at least. 

 

Still, Mike finds himself more and more distracted by Ginny Baker by the minute. He's willing to put money on the fact that there hasn’t been one waking hour where he hasn’t thought about that night at least once. The dreaming hours are worse because that's all he's dreamt about in the weeks and months since. It’s like he’d opened the floodgates and now the only thing he can do is wait for the onslaught to level out. It doesn’t feel like it ever will.

 

All he knows is he's fucking lucky that they made it to the off season without incident. Well, that _he_ made it without incident. Now, he has five months to get his head on straight. Stop looking at Baker like a piece of ass and treat her like every other damn pitcher in his club. Not that he'd ever really stopped seeing her as a ballplayer. Just, it was like seeing a double exposure. Baker on the mound, mind on the game, and Baker sprawled out on hotel linens, shaking apart around his fingers.

 

He isn't sure what he would've done if they'd been expected to play the World Series. 

 

The Padres missed a Wild Card slot by a mile, only coming in ahead of the Braves, which put Baker in something of mood. All through the postseason, she bitched and moaned about none of her teams making it, being stuck watching the Midwest battle it out for baseball's greatest honor. It gives Lawson half a mind to stop fucking calling her every night. 

 

He doesn't. 

He sighs down the line, loud enough to interrupt her rambling train of thought.

 

"Am I boring you, Lawson?" she asks tartly. Mike can just imagine the annoyed set of her mouth which transforms into her gasping lips as he crooked his fingers inside her. 

 

He shakes himself and groans. "Damn straight, rook. If I have to listen to you complain about the Braves defense any more, I might go drown myself in my sweet ass pool."

 

"Ha ha. I get it. You get paid mad money to hunker your ass behind the plate while the rest of us do the real work."

 

"Funny. No one told me you were funny, Baker."

 

"I aim to please," she practically purrs. 

 

Mike's cock stirs in interest. It always does when he's talking to Ginny, though. Particularly late at night while he sprawls out on his couch or his bed or even one of the loungers out on the patio. He hasn't yet crossed the line and touched himself while talking to her, but she's never sounded so breathy or seductive on the phone before. He'd usually had to leave that up to his imagination, which has been getting quite the work out lately. 

 

"Remember that next time you try to shake me off," he chokes out. Then, it hits him. She's echoing his words from that second game back to him. He can't tell what she means by it, but his mind is racing.

 

Across San Diego, Ginny Baker doesn't mean anything by her words. All she knows is it has been weeks since anyone has touched her outside of a professional capacity and she wants to burst out of her skin, she's so frustrated. 

 

Which really is ridiculous. She's had far longer dry spells than this, spent years in the minors without much more than very anonymous one night stands to hold her over. To be fair, though, she's never had to coexist with the subject of her fantasies for so long, either. 

 

Idly, she scratches low across her stomach and huffs at him. "Maybe if you stopped calling for fastballs when Anthony Rizzo is at the plate."  


 

He laughs. "You ever gonna forgive me for that?" He'd called for the fastball and Rizzo ripped it out of right center for a three run homer.  


 

"Not without some serious convincing." The words are out of her mouth before she realizes, coming out throaty and suggestive. 

 

Mike doesn't respond and Ginny holds her breath, unsure of what she's waiting for. 

 

"Yeah?" he finally manages, voice rough with disbelief. 

 

Ginny hums. Her fingers on her stomach suddenly feel like licks of fire lighting her up. She flirts with the waistband of her pajama shorts, wonders if she's going to cross this line again. Knows she wants to.

 

"Talk to me, rookie," he begs. The thoughts that raced through his mind in the moment it took him to respond were probably too filthy to ever relate. Needless to say, his dick is standing at full attention. Maybe he needs to get her out of his system. If he does it now, he has months to get over himself. Months to figure out how to treat Ginny the way she deserves. At least when they're on the field. 

 

(The idea of getting anything more than that is, frankly, as implausible as they come.) 

 

Ginny licks her lips, considers. She'd be lying if she said she didn't want more of whatever Mike will give her. In spite of his awkwardness after that night in New York, she trusts him. Knows that he won't fuck her and use that as an excuse to say she isn't a fit ballplayer. 

 

She makes her decision. 

 

Mike can practically hear her thinking. He's just about to prompt her when her voice comes over the line. "You finally calling in that favor? You want me to talk to you, Lawson?"

 

He curses, imagines what she would sound like talking him through an orgasm, wonders if he'd turn around and talk her through her own. He thinks about the sounds of Ginny Baker making herself come echoing over the line, how it'll probably be enough to get him going again. He thinks about it and knows that it wouldn't be enough. 

 

"Shit," he hisses. "Yeah. Yes. How fast can you get over here?"

Ginny hadn't quite expected that. She'd thought that they'd go for a round or two over the phone and call it a night. But if he wants to see her...

 

"Give me twenty minutes?"

 

* * *

  

If the twenty-odd minutes that Mike waits for Ginny's arrival seem more like decades, there's no one to witness his restless pacing. He putters around downstairs, straightening what little clutter has accumulated in the offseason. Mostly, he folds and puts away the blanket nest he'd formed on the couch. Then, he tries to remember the last time he showered. He's pretty sure it was last night, and he hasn't done anything all day, which is gross in its own way. He hops in the shower for a quick scrub down and then has to worry about whether putting real clothes on again is weird. 

 

Before he knows it, his bed is strewn with clothing, he's still buck-naked, and the doorbell is going. Hurriedly, he throws on the first things his hands touch, which happen to be his work out clothes. By some act of providence, they're clean, so struggles into them and tosses the rest back into his too-empty closet. 

 

Mike clatters down the stairs as the doorbell sounds again. 

 

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he mutters as he yanks open the door. 

 

"Pretty sure that comes later in the evening," Ginny quips, stepping inside. She sends him a sly glance, but he's been reading her long enough to see that she's a little hesitant for all her bravado.  

 

"You're a smartass, Baker," he complains, willing himself to act normal. Let her set the pace. For all he'd invited her over and she'd come, Mike Lawson knows this isn't a done deal. She could bolt at any time and he tells himself to be okay with that.

 

"I thought you liked my ass." Ginny squares her shoulders and stares him down. She's not used to being the instigator in situations like this, but twenty minutes in the car hadn't done anything to cool the flames heating her belly and Mike  _hasn't touched her_. 

 

"I do. I really do," he answers, meeting her stare for stare. Still, he doesn't move to close the gap. Ginny starts to feel awkward, standing in the middle of his entryway a solid five feet of air between them. 

 

Maybe it's time to try a different tack. 

 

She breaks eye contact and wanders deeper into his house, heading for the drink cart stationed in his living room. She pours herself a tumbler of gin, not that she really wants a clouded mind for what she thinks is going to come. Still, she takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. What had Cara mixed with the gin that made it taste so good? Because this tasted like an actual Christmas tree.

 

Ginny leans against the wall next to the cart and raises a brow at Mike, who'd drifted along behind her, but still kept his distance. "You really pulled out all the stops tonight, huh, Lawson?"

 

"Sorry for the—" he breaks off and settles for sheepishly gesturing at his clothes. 

 

"No. No, it"—she swallows dryly—"works."

 

And that piques his interest, if only for the fact that he wears this at least once a week during their tandem training sessions. Finally, he advances on her, plucks the gin from her hand and sets it aside. "That so, rookie?"

 

She gives him an annoyed glare, but her eyes slip, wander down his looming form. She licks her lips absently and Mike wants nothing more than to follow her tongue with his own. 

 

"Uh huh."

 

Ginny barely has time to register the way Mike's eyes darken before he's on her, pressing her up against the wall. His hands are everywhere, one second anchoring her hips against his, the next diving beneath her shirt for the bare skin of her back. She hooks a leg over his hip and he ruts helplessly into her. Ginny's eyes nearly roll back into her head as he presses the seam of her jeans into her warm center. She pants into his neck, clutches at his broad shoulders. How are a few touches enough to bring her to the brink? It hasn't even been that long—not even two months—since this last happened. Which is nothing in the grand scheme of things. She's pretty sure she went through longer droughts in the minors. 

 

Then again, she hadn't known just what Mike Lawson could do with his tongue in the minors. 

 

She pushes his face away from her breasts, wrinkling her nose at the way he's made the fabric cling to her chest and nipples. So what if she hadn't put on a bra? She'd barely had the presence of mind to switch out her pajama shorts for jeans. Besides, if she has her way, she wouldn't be needing it long. When she looks up at him, there's a smug smirk nestled behind his beard. 

 

"Shut up," she mutters, pushing him away. 

 

"Didn't say anything," he responds in a bit of a daze. The only thing he can really focus on is the sway of her hips as she ambles over to his couch. As she settles in, he can't help but think of the number of times he's talked to her while sprawled out on that couch. The number of times the mere sound of her voice has gotten him hard. How he's had to hold off until he's said his goodbyes and ended the call before taking himself in hand. 

 

But this. This isn't just a disembodied voice over a cell line. 

 

This is Ginny Baker. In the flesh. 

 

She stares at Mike, who hasn't moved from the drink cart. He's staring, too, like he's not quite sure if she's real or if he even wants her to be, and Ginny feels the unsettling needles of uncertainty prickle through her arousal. She knows this isn't in her head. Doesn't mean neither of them can have second thoughts, though.

 

Before she can talk herself out of this terrible decision, though, her mouth is moving. "You gonna stand and stare at me all night?"

 

"Depends on what sorta show you're putting on, Baker."

 

She hums, stretches languidly and struggles not to smirk when Mike drifts in a few steps. His eyes are glued to the generous expanse of stomach she's shown off, smooth and toned and golden brown. He steps closer, wants to put his hands and his mouth and,  _Jesus_ , _just fucking everything_ on her. Just as he leans down to skim his fingertips under the edge of her shirt, though, Ginny grabs his wrist and pulls. Before he knows it, Mike is on the couch with a smirking Ginny Baker standing in front of him. 

 

"You want a show, old man?" she asks, a challenge in her eyes.

 

Nearly swallowing his tongue, Mike nods eagerly.

 

_Of course he had to call my fucking bluff._

 

Ginny knows she has no moves to speak of. She grew up playing ball, trying to get guys to respect her, not want her. Since it seemed that for so many boys, the two were mutually exclusive, she'd settled on the option that let her keep playing the game. Passing up a few opportunities to date sweaty, hormonal teenage boys in high school hadn't been that big of a sacrifice. And she figured out dating, anyway. Sort of. Figured it out well enough to know that whatever experience she has, it's because of baseball, not in spite of it. And while she loves to dance, she doesn't do it for the way men's eyes trace across her form. She does it for the wild high it produces, the closest thing to winning she's found off the field. 

 

But having Mike's eyes on her? Maybe that's something that she can work with, judging by the low thrum in her belly. For this man with something alive in his eyes. Just the way he's looking at her—she's not Ginny Baker, trailblazer and reluctant icon. He sees her. 

 

For a woman who spends so much of her time in the spotlight, Ginny Baker seems remarkably uncertain under Mike's heavy stare. She sways her hips and Mike would be enticed if it weren't for the uncertain way she gnaws on her lip. She's fluid, magnetic, but still so unsure. Her hands flirt with the bottom edge of her shirt, flutter down to the button on her jeans, and all the while, she watches him shrewdly, examining his reactions. 

 

Mike feels a warm rush of affection for this woman who so clearly wants to be the best, even when she has no competition to speak of. 

 

(What, exactly, Ginny Baker might be competing for, Mike doesn't really want to say. All he knows is what she wants, she should get.)

 

He laughs and Ginny wants to be annoyed or even hurt, but he looks so delighted propped up against the cushions of his couch and decked out in his workout clothes, she can't quite bring herself to. 

 

"Don't hurt yourself," he chuckles, tugging gently on her wrist. "Just get down here, Baker. Jesus, you're bad at this."

 

She complies, pouting a little. As she settles in his lap, knees bracketing his hips and jeans stretching across her thighs, Ginny's eyebrows raise. She rocks pointedly against the bulge in his shorts. "If this is what bad gets me, do I wanna be good?" she murmurs into his ear, fingers scraping through his thick hair.

 

Mike laughs again. "What a line!" he growls in her ear, but his fingers tighten on her thighs and his hips flex up, so maybe it really did work. 

 

Ginny shifts again and nearly gasps at pressure of his hard on against the seam of her jeans. Her hips roll, chasing the feeling. 

 

While her hips work, Ginny plucks at his threadbare shirt and whines behind her teeth. Grinning wickedly, Mike whips the offending garment over his head. Immediately, her hands are all over him. One slides down his chest, settles with her palm cupping the ridge of his hip bone. Her callused fingers curl into the flesh there and Mike wonders if he'll be the one left with fingertip bruises in the morning. The thought goes straight to his dick, which pulses in interest. Jesus, who knew that he'd be learning new things about himself at thirty-six? As if she can read his thoughts, she leans in and traces her perfect, pink tongue over his left nipple, following up with a gentle scrape from her teeth. She leans back and studies him through her lashes.

 

Mike stares back in open admiration. His hands work up to her hips, guiding her rhythm. When Ginny's breath hitches, Mike's follows. His dick throbs within the confines of his shorts. He groans and pulls her more firmly against his lap. If they were each down a layer, Mike knows exactly what he would do. He'd band his arms around her slim waist and gather her close to fuck up into her. Let one forearm brace her spine and cuff the back of her neck just so he can feel every shudder that rolls through her body. Fuck, he'd probably kiss her, too, wouldn't be able to help himself. 

 

How he hasn't yet is either a miracle or a monumental mistake.

 

And, shit. Just thinking about it—fucking Ginny Baker fast and dirty in his living room, not just kissing her—has nearly brought him to the edge. 

 

"Baker, you gotta stop." Ginny stills above him, eyes wide. Mike hears the words and curses himself out, rubs soothing circles into the skin above her hip bones. He offers her a chagrined smile and explains, "Don't think you came all the way over here for me to blow my load in my shorts like this is high school."

 

Her mouth drops open into a perfect "O." She shifts again in his lap and his fingers tighten on her hips automatically. Maybe they'll have matching marks in the morning. Her face lights up in a devious grin and Mike growls her name, a warning. He's pretty sure she's just gonna make him do just that and he braces for the inevitable embarrassment.

 

What he isn't expecting is Ginny Baker to slide off his lap, kneel at his side, and press her face into his crotch. The waistband of his shorts shifts and  _shit._ She's using her fucking mouth to try and undress him. Honestly, Mike Lawson's not even sure how he's alive at this point. As helpfully as he can, he lifts his hips and lets her drag his shorts down his legs. 

 

Once his dick is freed, Ginny sits back and takes in the tableau she's arranged. Mike Lawson breathing deep and unsteady, already looking wrecked, splays out on what must be a ridiculously expensive couch. His fingers scrabble for purchase along the backrest, grip turning his knuckles white. In the dim lighting, Ginny can't make out the hazel of his eyes, but that might also have something to do with how wide his pupils have blown out. 

 

And, speaking of blowing. 

 

Ginny wraps her hand around his dick, thinks back to the last time she was in this position. _Well, not this position exactly,_ she corrects as she remembers the rub of his beard between her thighs. Amazing as that felt, she thinks she likes this more. Likes seeing his chest expand on an inhale as her fingers glide down the slight curve of him. Likes seeing the bead of moisture leak out his flushed head as her hand slides back the way it came. She's pretty sure she might like what happens next more, though. 

 

Leaning in, propping herself up on knees and elbows, Ginny's tongue flutters out and she licks up the saltsweatmusk of him. Tentatively, fully aware that she does not have the most experience with this particular act, she closes her mouth over his tip. Bobbing down a bit, the weight of him settles on her tongue and Ginny hums at the sensation. The low groan above her settles deep in her stomach and she shifts, suddenly aware of the lack of friction on her clit. 

 

Mike's fingers weave into Ginny's riotous curls, pulling them out of her face. She pulls off him and Mike can't tell if it's the cool air on his dick or the smile she gives him, but he shudders. His thumb rubs against her jaw and Ginny leans into the pressure, nearly purring with contentment. Mike's head lolls back against the back of the couch and the view down his old, broken body is making him wonder just what he's done in life to deserve _this_.

 

This being Ginny Baker's mouth wrapped around his dick while her hips rock in time with the drag of her lips. Just to be clear.

 

But that. That is something Mike Lawson can do something about. He loosens his fingers from her hair and smoothes his hand down her back. He revels in the way her spine arches as his fingers walk down each vertebrae. Mike barely resists giving her round, perfect ass a smack, but he does give into the urge to squeeze. Ginny hums and his hips buck a little at the buzz of her lips and tongue on him. In retaliation or reward— _who cares at this point?_ —he fits his hand under her, between her thighs. 

 

There's no way he's getting his hand down her pants, not at this angle, but he presses the blunt edge of his hand against the center seam of her jeans. When she grinds down against him, her lips fall open and she pants hard despite her full mouth. 

 

Ginny feels electric. Mike's hand between her legs and the weight of him on her tongue is better than any drug. She assumes. She's never had a chance to get high in her life. Well, she's had plenty of opportunity, but never the inclination. Still, this feeling that Mike is drawing out of her has got to be better. His voice, which he hardly even seems aware of washes over her, a steady stream of filth that has her rocking her hips even more furiously. 

 

"Yeah, Gin. C'mon, use my hand. I bet you're fucking soaked. You soaked for me? Oh, shit! Do you know how fucking perfect your mouth is?"

 

She hums and pulls off of him again. When she licks up his shaft, Ginny cocks her head, gives herself a view along his body. He looks back at her with an intensity that she's accustomed to. That she usually only sees it at a distance of sixty-some feet probably explains the way her belly quivers in anticipation. 

 

 _Shit_ , she thinks.  _I'm never gonna be able to look at him from the mound again_. 

 

"Fuck!" he curses, rubbing hard against her denim covered pussy. 

 

That ruthless pressure against her aching cunt sends sparks shooting across her vision. Ginny's arms buckle and her forehead drops into Mike's lap. Her hips keep grinding against the hard jut of his hand, but she doesn't have any control of them. She lets the spasms roll through her, panting against the bare skin of his thigh and hip. A particularly vicious shudder rocks her and Ginny's teeth sink into his skin. She scrapes them along his hip bone and he fucking growls. It feels like the longest orgasm of her life and she doesn't want it to end. 

 

Of course it does, though. If it weren't for his arm bracing her, she would flop, boneless, onto the cushions. 

 

"Shit," Mike breathes. "Did you just—?" He can't remember the last time he got a woman off without taking off a single piece of her clothing. 

 

Weakly, she nods. Somehow, she manages to push herself up enough to get her mouth on his dick again, determined to finish what she'd started, and that, inexplicably, is what does him in.

 

The first spurt catches her off guard. It explodes across her tongue and she rears back in surprise, watches the next few hit the air. She knows enough to reach out and keep stroking him through the finish. She tries not to wrinkle her nose at the substance now coating her palm and the back of her hand, but Lawson laughs, so she knows she must not have done a very good job. Thinking about the slightly salty splash she'd just tasted, though, Ginny tentatively licks one fingertip clean. 

 

Mike's laughter catches in his throat. Suddenly, all he can focus on is Ginny Baker's soft, pink tongue curling across the callus of her pointer finger, drawing away and leaving behind nothing but a slight sheen of spit. If he were any younger, his dick would be half hard again. Of course, he is not and he can already feel the endorphin high bleeding away, leaving him a little sleepy and stupid. Before he can pass out, hopefully wrapped around a certain pitcher, there's some business to take care of. Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, not bothering with replacing his shed clothing. 

 

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," he says, reaching out a hand.

 

Ginny can see what happens next as clear as day. She washes his come off her hands, orders herself an Uber, he sends her off into the night, and they avoid each other until Spring Training in February. 

 

Well, if that's how he wants to play it, Ginny Baker can, actually, follow his calls.

 

Like a baby deer, she unfolds herself unsteadily and climbs to her feet, ignoring the hand. Ginny seems to curl in on herself and Mike hates it. Wants her to never feel so uncertain again. 

 

"Yeah, I should probably go," she mutters, refusing to make eye contact. 

 

"Nah, don't be stupid." And, okay. He probably could have picked better words. But it does get Ginny to look at him. Well, glare, but Mike will take what he can get from the avoidance master. 

 

"I'm not. I'm coming to my senses. This was a bad idea."

 

"Of course it was a bad idea! Terrible idea, even," he nearly shouts. How did he go from the most emotionally significant blowjob of his adult life to this? "That doesn't mean I regret it, though!"

 

"You're telling me you don't regret what just happened?" 

 

"Fuck, no! Well, I regret not being able to keep my cool long enough to get you off on purpose." She doesn't break at his terrible joke, just keeps looking at him. Mike hates that he can practically see her scrambling to build up her walls again. He reaches out and cups her cheek because he's a sentimental schmuck. "I regret whatever I did that makes you think I'd regret this."

 

Ginny's world reels. She can't do much more than stare at him in shock. 

 

Carefully, Mike takes a step towards her. He brushes his thumb across the smooth sweep of her cheekbone. "Talk to me, rookie."

 

That request, so different from the way he'd uttered it earlier in the evening, shakes something loose inside her.

 

She looks up at him and lets herself be vulnerable. "This was a bad idea."

 

"Yes."

 

"But you don't regret it."

 

"No."

 

"So, you're not gonna avoid me for the next few weeks?"

 

And, okay. Maybe she can admit that Lawson avoiding her for those weeks after New York hurt. Not just because she was uncomfortable with an outstanding debt, but because she'd missed her friend. Ginny isn't sure she could go through it a second time.

 

He frowns. "Is that what has you worried?" At her minute nod, he gathers her into his arms. Willingly, she steps into his space, rests her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I won't avoid you, promise." If he has his way, he'll be doing  pretty much the opposite of avoiding Ginny Baker for the foreseeable future. Having her here, in his arms, in his house, has made him realize something, though he's sure he'll live in denial for a while longer.

 

His promise helps. It doesn't completely quell her fears, but Mike Lawson isn't really capable of that. After all, he's not really responsible for the pressure of her career and her status as a role model/icon. 

 

Mike gives her one last squeeze and draws away. "Now, can we please go get you cleaned up and into something to sleep in?"

 

"Me? I'm not the naked one, here," she points out, her eyes trailing appreciatively over his form. Mike does his best not to preen. His best isn't very good at all, so he feels his ego swell under her gaze. "And, I'm sorry, but when did this turn into a sleepover?"

 

"C'mon, Baker. You can't expect me to just send you off into the wilderness. It's late!"

 

"You live in La Jolla, old man," she protests, but follows him up to the master suite. While she washes her hands and face, Mike pulls on another pair of shorts and rummages through a few drawers to find something that will fit Ginny's slight frame. All he comes up with are a pair of boxers and some leggings that definitely aren't his. He goes with the boxers. 

 

When he emerges from his closet, he stops in his tracks, sure that he must be dreaming. 

 

Because there, spread out against his cloudy white duvet, sprawls Ginny Baker in just her t shirt and underwear. 

 

That Mike has dreamt of this exact scenario—as well as several variations—doesn't help matters. 

 

She lifts her head at his entrance and frowns at the bundle of fabric in his hands. "Oh, did you actually find me something to wear?"

 

He swallows and drops the boxers. "Nah," comes out more hoarse than he wants, but since nothing about the sight before him changes after a discreet pinch, he can't quite blame himself. "You're good."

 

Before the stupid, chivalrous part of his brain kicks in (really, he and Baker are so far beyond chivalry), Mike pads over to his enormous bed and crawls in. Ginny wriggles under the covers, drawing her long legs up to her chest before insinuating herself between the duvet and mattress. Mike settles on his back, one of the only positions that won't leave him with protesting joints in the morning. He reaches out and flicks the light switch above his bedside table, sending the room into darkness. 

 

Mike becomes hyper-aware of Ginny's breathing, the rustle of sheets. He can feel her inching closer, but it's still a surprise when her curly head comes to rest between his shoulder and chest. He lifts his arm and lets her snuggle against his side, feeling like breathing too hard might send her skittering away. But, miraculously, she relaxes against him, her arm curling across his chest. Slowly, Mike lets his own arm rest along her back, his hand coming up to settle in the hollow of her waist.

 

Ginny's breathing evens out and Mike can feel himself being pulled under, too. The last thought he has is ridiculous. Sappy and over-the-top and entirely unoriginal, but, hey. He's a ballplayer, not a poet. 

 

What he thinks is this:  _How can a wrong decision feel this right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least a couple people asked for a continuation of this, so this cannot be blamed solely on me. I would like to be clear on that front.
> 
> I'll admit, I got a bit stuck on this. Much as I want them to bone, I probably don't want them to do it this way? like, this is bad decision city, which is why they each say that like four times.
> 
> Anyway, thanks everyone for reading, all feedback is appreciated and cherished! Here or on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com) :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even bad ideas have to turn out all right sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I missed the smut train on sunday! i was working on this, but i got carried away.

Before he even opens his eyes, Mike Lawson is sure that something is wrong. 

 

Maybe not _wrong_ , but certainly strange.

 

The thing is, Mike is sure he did not fall asleep this way. Not only because sleeping on his side has been killer on his back in the past. But he's pretty sure he'd remember falling asleep with his dick nestled between the cheeks of the most perfect ass he's ever felt. And Mike Lawson has had years to form a broad basis of comparison. He's also pretty sure he'd remember falling asleep with his hand down the owner of that ass's pants. Okay, his fingertips dipped into the waistband of her underwear, but same difference.

 

It's this confusion that makes him wonder, even briefly, if he just up and died in the middle of the night. Did his heart suddenly catch up with his knees and decide that enough was enough, Mike Lawson wasn't meant for the world anymore? 

 

If this is what the afterlife had in store for him, then he really couldn't complain, could he?

 

(Still adjusting to this new reality, a thought swims into distinction: If his two regrets are never actually getting to fuck Ginny Baker and never earning that World Series Ring—in that order—well, Mike's pretty glad God can't judge him _after_ he's dead.

 

That there's a third regret—something about feelings and keeping his stupid mouth shut for too long—is true, but, hey! He's dead. It's not like it matters anyway.)

 

Rather than open his eyes and confirm whether or not he's actually died and gone to heaven, Mike buries his face in his pillow. Or, he would, but there's something in his way. Something soft and a little springy and smelling much better than his pillow does. Like coconut, maybe. Something that doesn't belong in candy but is, anyway. Maybe this is just what pillows are like in the afterlife. And, because his brain is not operating at full capacity, he opens his mouth and inhales.

 

Huge mistake. He's suddenly choking on what is definitely not candy. It's hair. 

 

Even sputtering, a few strands still stick against his lips. He rocks his head back on the (real life) pillow to get a better view. 

 

The first glimpse of that cloud of dark curls and Mike's brain kicks into overdrive, flashes of memory interspersed with intention, nearly knocking him for a loop. Okay, definitely not dead. Unconsciously, his fingers clench, sending his fingertips skidding across the barest hint of stubble. Because his fingertips are still hanging out just under the band of Ginny Baker's underwear. And she shaves, which is definitely something he noticed months ago but hadn't really put any effort into thinking about. Had, in point of fact, put a lot of effort into _not_ thinking about. He focuses on relaxing, then has to try not to lose his mind as the elastic waistband slides higher up his knuckles as the tension leaks out of his fingers. It wouldn't take much effort to let his hand work further down, spread Ginny open, and give her the best damn wake up call of her life. However, Mike doesn't make a habit of groping sleeping women, not unless she's asked him to beforehand. 

 

And Ginny Baker is definitely still asleep. He's seen her sleeping often enough to know when she's dead to the world. No, he's never been quite this  _close_ to her, but she has fallen asleep on his shoulder more than once on long bus rides. She's a quiet sleeper, can zonk out and not move for hours at a time. More than once, he'd checked to make sure she was still breathing, prompting unflattering snickers from Blip. 

 

Ginny waking up is something else entirely. The smooth peacefulness of sleep is interrupted by frowns and a furrowed brow, as if she's aware of just how much worse being awake is, how close she is to leaving dream land. Then, she'll sigh, just a soft little exhalation of acceptance, and her eyes flutter open. 

 

That Mike is intimately familiar with this routine is definitely tied up in that third regret, but that's a problem for Future Mike. Present Mike, as previously stated, might have died and gone to heaven. In which case, Future Mike can fuck off. 

 

And, okay. He's aware that waking up with his dick pressed into the cleft of Ginny Baker's perfect, pear shaped ass is probably messing with his higher brain function. He knows he's not dead.

 

He hasn't done anything good enough in his life to wake up on the other side to something like  _this_. 

 

Unconsciously, his fingertips start to trace gentle patterns into the skin below her hip bone. He only becomes aware of it as Ginny sighs and shifts against his chest. Her back arches and her legs extend and Mike almost loses his goddamn mind at the feel of her body, all pressed up against him, tense and release. She sighs again and nuzzles her face into the arm trapped under her head. It's his arm. Her lips drag against his skin in a not-quite-kiss and Mike honest to God shivers at the feel. 

 

For her part, Ginny knows exactly where she is and how she got there. 

 

She also knows she has no plans to leave until she gets another crack at whatever is currently pressing insistently into her backside. If the way Mike's fingers are slowly inching their way into her panties is any indication, she'd guess he has no problem with that plan.

 

"Morning," she murmurs, rolling onto her back to look up at the man in question. In the morning light—seriously, the man needs to invest in some blinds or something—he looks softer. Like a regular 36-year-old in the prime of his life rather than an aging ballplayer. It's a good look on him. Much as she likes his intensity on the field, Ginny thinks she could get used to this version, too.

 

He smiles, not the cocksure smirk that she's so used to. His eyes crinkle and his cheeks apple and Ginny's not sure she's ever seen Mike Lawson look this happy. Helplessly, she smiles back and lays her palm against his jaw, rubbing a little and enjoying the soft bristle of his beard. Automatically, he turns into her palm, his lips catching on the edge and puckering in a soft kiss. 

 

That, even more than waking up with his hard on pressed so close to where she wants it, solidifies Ginny's resolve. 

 

God, does she want him. 

 

Her fingers curl around the shell of his ear and she tugs, wants to kiss him, is so aware of the fact that she  _hasn't_ kissed him. She's had his mouth between her legs, but she's never actually kissed him on the lips. That's going to need to change in the very near future.

 

So, she draws him down to her and he comes willingly enough. He hovers over her while she runs her nose against his beard. She's not sure what's so fascinating about it, but she's never made out with a guy with a full on beard before. Stubble, sure, but never something on Mike Lawson's level. 

 

Judging by the way he managed to get her off without even trying last night, she's pretty sure his beard isn't the only thing that's in a category of its own. 

 

When Ginny tries to kiss him, Mike's mind short circuits. It's not that he doesn't want this—he really, really wants this—but he's not sure he'll be able to handle kissing Ginny Baker. Not if it's not something she's prepared to let him do for the rest of his goddamn life. He pulls away in a panic, staring down at her with wide eyes. Ginny raises an eyebrow at his reaction, but Mike can see the flicker of hurt underlying the casual response. Her hand drops from his face and Mike feels his stomach drop with it. 

 

"What're we doin', rook?" he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

 

"I was planning on kissing you and then doing something about the hard on poking my hip," she replies, aiming for breezy and landing squarely in confused uncertainty. 

 

Mike flops onto his back with a groan. His arm is still trapped under her head, but his other hand finally slithers out of her underwear. He wants to scrub at his eyes, but as soon as he lifts that hand to his face, the overwhelming smell of Ginny Baker floods his senses. He groans again, but turns his head to face her again. 

 

"You told me you weren't gonna avoid me, old man," she reminds him, looking more fragile than he's ever seen her. 

 

"I know. I'm sorry." He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. He's not sure that he can explain himself better, at least not out loud, and hopes she won't need that. He'll try, if she does. He'll trip over his tongue as he explains that he  _knows_ it's ridiculous to ask her for forever. That he  _knows_ , much as he wants her, he doesn't necessarily get to have her, not unless she wants him to. It would be so easy to just give in because, as he's established, he really fucking wants her, would regret it the rest of his life if he misses out on this chance. And the more his mind swirls, the more it starts to orbit around that one idea: Give in or you'll regret it, Lawson.

 

She nods and murmurs, "Make it up to me?" When Mike opens his eyes, she's got her chin tilted up to him, perfect, plump lips there for the taking. 

 

He swallows and gives in. 

 

Kissing Ginny Baker is, if not better than getting her off, at least as good. She's warm and responsive and even if her mouth is still a little stale from sleep, she's still probably the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. And when Ginny fucking  _mewls_ into his mouth, her hips shifting on the bed, Mike loses all reservations. 

 

When Mike rolls on top of her, something settles into place in Ginny. In her gut or her mind, she's not sure, but there's something that feels utterly right about Mike Lawson's weight pinning her to the mattress. His hips slot right into the cradle of hers. Big as he is, powerful as his bulk makes him, it doesn't feel overwhelming, not when she could be overwhelmed by his lips and teeth and tongue battling against hers. And Mike kisses the way he does most things: with a single-minded intensity. He licks into her mouth and his hips rut against her, drawing another borderline embarrassing sound from her mouth. 

 

Ginny's hands are curled into his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. She's sure there's a better place for them, though. Eagerly, she skims them down his broad back, delighting as his muscles shudder in her wake. The closer she gets to her target, the more ferocious Mike becomes. When her hands finally hit the waistband of Mike's shorts and blow right on by, wiggling beneath the elastic to squeeze, she has to tilt her face away to giggle at his dark growl. He hardly misses a beat, latching onto her pulse point, making her squirm as his tongue and teeth and beard lash against her skin. Her fingers convulse against his ass and he bucks into her again. It's a delicious feedback loop that Ginny doesn't want to end.

 

Frantically, she pushes until the waistband catches on his powerful thighs. She manages to expose his ass to the air, but whines in frustration. Their hips, pressed flush together, leave little room for the fabric to move between them. 

 

"Something wrong?" he mutters into the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Ginny can feel his lips split in a smug smile. The way he's worked her into a frenzy, though, he probably deserves to be a little smug.

 

Still, she rolls her eyes and rocks her hips pointedly. His thin athletic shorts and her soaking underwear don't offer much resistance between her warm, wet pussy and his throbbing dick. Not much resistance is still too much, but Ginny can every inch of him lined up against her folds. It's so much better than trying to grind against his thigh or his hand, so much more intimate.

 

Better, but not the best.

 

"Nothing's wrong," she responds, a little breathless as his hips take up a steady grind against her core, "as long as you quit being a fucking tease."

 

He pulls away from her neck at that, props himself up on his elbows above her. Mike knows he's got the shit-eatingest of shit-eating grins right now. "Me? A tease?" he demands. There's no way he would stop the drag and rock of his hips, even if he wanted to, not with the way Ginny tips her head back into the pillow, mouth falling open. "What're you saying, Baker?"

 

She sucks in a ragged breath, but manages to make eye contact. "You know exactly what I'm saying, Lawson," she bites out, her hands trying to pull him closer. 

 

Rather than give in, tempting as the idea is, Mike lets his own fingers walk under the hem of her shirt, revealing inch upon inch of Ginny Baker's smooth, bronze skin. Apparently, he goes too slow because Ginny bats his hands away and peels the shirt off on her own. 

 

Seeing her all disheveled on his sheets, hair wild and chest heaving, is almost enough to make him lose his train of thought. Almost, but not quite. 

 

He hums in thought, dragging a callused thumb across her nipple and watching her writhe as the nub tightens. Yeah, he's gonna need to put his mouth on that in the near future. "Spell it out for me," he smirks, lowering his mouth. 

 

Ginny's breath catches and her fingers find purchase in his hair. She full out moans when his teeth scrape against her skin, and her fingers tighten almost painfully against his scalp. When he bites down even harder, she tugs for good measure, unwilling to pass up anything Mike might give her. Still, she pants and manages to breathe out her response. "If you don't hurry up and fuck me, I'm gonna think you're not up to the job."

 

"Big words," he muses after pulling off her with a wet pop. Ginny glares half-heartedly and she tugs at his hair again. As a revenge tactic, it's undermined by the way her fingers immediately soothe the sharp ache, scratching idly. 

 

"You're not saying anything to convince me otherwise," she responds. She wriggles a little, untangling her fingers to push lightly at his shoulder. When he rolls away, her hands shoot down to her plain, cotton panties, a dark spot leeching up from the gusset. "Should I be taking care of myself?" 

 

He's tempted to say, "Yes." Say, "Show me what you got," lie back, and take in the show. He doesn't. He's pretty sure he might actually die or his dick might explode or the world might fucking end if he doesn't fuck Ginny Baker. Like yesterday.

 

"Fuck," he breathes, pushing his shorts down and off in no time flat. Mike grabs Ginny's hands and pins them up near her face. He hovers over her and he knows he's got his game face on because Ginny's is out in full force, too. He's certain now that he'll never be able to look at her on the mound again, but he's filing that away for Future Mike to deal with. Present Mike's dick is out and hard and so mind-blowingly close to rubbing against the damp cotton of Ginny Baker's panties. "Still want to cut me out of the equation?" he asks, nipping at her collarbone

 

She shakes her head eagerly, but she does test his grip on her wrists. Mike bears down on her, bringing a knee, one he  _knows_ will ache by this afternoon, up to the joining of her thighs. When she writhes against him, he lets up. 

 

"Tell me what you want, Gin." It's supposed to come out as a command, but he sounds so fucking wrecked, it's more of a plea. 

 

Thankfully, Ginny is in the same boat. "Fuck me," she pants, trying to build up enough leverage to flip their positions. 

 

He'll take it.

 

Mike knows it'll probably be better if he spreads her open and fucks her like this. Angles and shit. He'll get to watch her face as he makes her come apart, run his tongue across her tits as he slides inside her. It'll be good. Hell, better than good because it's him and her. There's no way they're anything less than amazing.

 

Still, he can't quite shake the memory of waking up plastered to Ginny Baker's back. Her hair in his face and her ass on his dick, their legs tangled together. He wants that again. Wants to feel every shudder of her breath, every quake in her thighs. Wants to feel it and  _know_ that he's the cause. Because narcissism, remember? 

 

And anyway, if he gets his say in the matter, he'll have plenty of opportunity to compare positions later. For now, he's got to start somewhere. 

 

So, he rolls off Ginny again. Rolls all the way to the edge of the mattress so he can reach his bedside table and the box of condoms stashed in the top drawer. Because he's feeling optimistic, he pulls out the whole box, though when he yo-yos back to Ginny, he has the good sense to bring only one packet.

 

While Mike sorts out the condom, Ginny kicks the duvet to the foot of the bed. There's a fine sheen of sweat coating the surface of her skin, one that she's sure will only build as the morning wears on. When she feels the mattress shift again, she turns to pull Mike back into her. At this point, Ginny wants to wrap herself around him and not let go until he's filled her up. And his dick is more than capable of that. He'd been a tight fit in her mouth last night, nearly making her jaw ache as she took him in. The payoff was well worth the slight discomfort, though. His hands in her hair and on her back, almost trying to fuck her through her jeans, it was probably the most erotic experience of her life. That was without the way he'd run his mouth, too. Ginny could hardly recall some of the things he said without feeling like her cheeks were on fire. 

 

When she reaches out to him, though, he evades her grasp with a chuckle, encouraging her onto her other side. This puts her back to him and Ginny feels a little put out. Or, she does until Mike presses a kiss against the back of her neck. And then one to each shoulder blade. And down her spine. He lays kisses against her back until she's a shuddering mess of hormones. How is this doing it for her? When he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, she nearly cries out, she's so worked up. 

 

The fabric slides down her legs without much resistance. She feels his fingers ghost between her thighs, gauging her arousal, and hears the approving hum when he finds the well of slick juices. Rather than working his way back up her body, though, he busies himself with her backside. Mike lays a line of kisses along the crease where her thigh turns into glute. The soft scrub of his beard sends her into a fit of giggles, and she squirms away. Well, she tries. His arm wraps around her thighs, locking her in place. In silent disapproval, he nips at her flesh and Ginny's mind goes hazy for a minute. 

 

That was unexpected. 

 

Rather than give him any indication of how... effective his touches are, Ginny twists herself around as much as she can to look down at him. "I knew you were an ass man," she teases with a cheeky grin. 

 

He chuckles, teeth digging into the body part in question. "Didn't take much figuring. I pretty much told you the day we met."

 

"Hmm. And what did you call my ass again? Awesome and apple-cheeked? Or was it something about bodacious bananas?" She dissolves into laughter at her own jokes.

 

Honestly, Mike could listen to Ginny tease him all day, even if that involves her listing every fruit she can think of. But, there is the small matter of his dick, which is currently oozing precome onto his sheets, and her pussy, which has leaked juices all down her thighs. Much as he wants to lick the fragrant spill from her skin until she's shuddering on his tongue again, he'd definitely rather let his straining erection in on the action. So, he slides back up to the head of the bed again, hooking her knee in the crook of his arm as he goes. Somehow, he manages to roll the condom down his shaft, too, and nudges the ass in question. 

 

"You know I called it perfect and pear-shaped. Don't even try to pretend you don't hang on my every word."

 

With one arm snaked under Ginny's head again and the other splaying her legs open, he doesn't have a hand available to guide himself inside. Luckily, Ginny is something of a go-getter. She reaches between her legs and grasps his cock, lining him up with her soaking entrance. Mike feels like he should maybe take more time, really appreciate the magnitude of this before his first thrust inside Ginny Baker. But honestly, the idea that this won't be burned into his memory for the rest of his life is ridiculous. And wrong. 

 

Just so, so wrong. 

 

Ginny scrabbles for purchase, her hands wrinkling the pristine sheets, at the first slow stretch of Mike inside her. She's almost embarrassingly wet, can feel the rapidly cooling juices on her exposed thighs, but his full length and girth ( _Jesus, what is he doing in baseball with a dick this big?_ ) are still something of a challenge. 

 

He presses forward slowly. Almost maddeningly slow. Ginny wants to roll her hips just to get it over with. She thinks she might like the pinch and stretch knowing that it's Mike Lawson doing it to her. She knows she'll like the rough rhythm of in and out once he decides to stop torturing her and gets on with it. When she whines and tries to shift, tries to sink down onto him, though, Mike just chuckles darkly. She's got almost no leverage in this position, her thigh hoisted in the air and Mike's considerable weight flush against her back. His teeth scrape along a tendon in her neck, the one that runs into her shoulder, and he shifts his grip on her thigh so his palm splays out on the quivering muscles there. He squeezes, fingers depressing into her flesh and  _shit!_ It's almost as good as the heavy slide of him into her pussy. Together, they make her groan and turn her face into the mattress. She can't quite reach and ends up pressing her forehead into his bulky bicep. 

 

As he continues his achingly slow thrust inside, Ginny does her best to breathe. She knows pitiful little moans and pants are dropping off her tongue and through bee-stung lips, but she can't quite help herself. 

 

 _Fucking hell_. Mike's hardly even halfway inside Ginny's tight, warm cunt and she's already quivering around him. Not to mention the fucking noises. She sounds fucking amazing, breath coming in hitches that somehow press her back even closer to his chest. 

 

Mike curls the arm under her head around her front, lets his fingers brush against her pebbled nipples. Ginny gasps and—  _That's e-fucking-nough._ He nudges at the back of her jaw with his nose until she cranes around. As soon as her mouth in range, he pounces. He slants his lips across hers, tongue tasting her surprise and darting right on by. There's a time for finesse and Mike's pretty sure it's not when you're nearly bottoming out in the woman of your dreams.

 

He's not sure, he'll have to check when his brain is functioning again. 

 

For now, all he knows is the wet slide of Ginny's tongue against his teeth and the bone-jarringly  _right_ feeling of his hips finally pressing up against her round, smooth, perfect ass. 

 

He knows the angle could be better. Any number of positions would get him balls deep inside of Ginny Baker's perfect cunt. But, honest to God, Mike isn't sure he could handle those if this is what an imperfect position feels like. Her walls already flutter around the head of his cock and all the way down most of his shaft, and, yep. Mike's probably going to embarrass himself in the near future.

 

He has to breathe for a second, drops his head to Ginny's shoulder to let his entire worldview settle back into place, which is maybe dramatic of him, but this is fucking dramatic. Ginny whines and does her best to spur him into action. She arches her back and her tits shift underneath his fingers. She circles her hips and he sinks another impossible inch deeper. Her hum of satisfaction is quickly replaced by that needy keen that Mike knows is going to haunt his every waking hour from now until he dies.

 

Which might not be too far off if the way his heart is hammering away is any indication. 

 

When Mike finally withdraws and thrusts back inside, Ginny moans out her encouragement. She might be losing her mind over  _finally_ getting to fuck Mike Lawson, but she's in control enough to realize how much he likes the sounds she makes. Every pant is rewarded by a firmer grip on her thigh, every moan with a hitch of his hips. Her breath comes in ragged gasps and Mike falls back down to trace his lips and tongue and teeth over her racing pulse. Ginny can feel her chest expand, but there's never quite enough air. It's nothing like her panic attacks, though. There's no panic in this. Ginny is right where she wants to be.

 

From the drag of Mike's beard across the top of her shoulder to the dull slap of his his hips against her ass, Ginny Baker is pretty sure she's died and gone to heaven. 

 

She likes sex, likes the loose, floaty feeling in her limbs when she makes herself come, but she'd never really considered it a  _need_ before. She'd laughed at teammates who whined about their dry spells, talked about _needing_ to get laid. Sex is good, she won't argue with that, but she's pretty sure a person can survive without it. 

 

But this. Ginny's pretty sure she might die if Mike doesn't keep fucking her hard and slow, like he's taking his time with her, memorizing every minute detail. Maybe she'll make an exception if he wants to speed up, though. For comparison's sake. 

 

She grunts as the head of his cock rubs up against that spot inside her that always makes her see stars. Her hand scrabbles for purchase again and lands on his beefy forearm. Not caring about the marks that her nails are going to leave, she digs in. And then again when he draws back and his next thrust hits that same spot. 

 

"Like that, Gin?" he growls next to her ear.

 

And if she were in more control of her faculties, Ginny would probably get back at him for the sheer smugness in his voice. As it is, she nods frantically, pressing back against him and trying to get him to do it again. And again and again and again.

 

She's vaguely aware that she's chanting something, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes," or maybe his name, but Ginny can hardly convince herself that this is real, let alone that she should stop letting him know just how good this is. 

 

Still, it could be better. 

 

With her free hand, she reaches down between her splayed thighs, lets her fingers strum over her exposed clit and sinks into the feeling Mike's dick and her own fingers are pulling out of her. 

 

When Ginny's already tight pussy tightens even more around him, Mike nearly loses his mind. He's not sure if she's doing it on purpose, but he steps up his game, slamming inside her with a grunt. 

 

"Fuck, baby. Are you close? Do you wanna come? Want me to make you come, Gin? Come on, let me make you come," he breathes-begs into her ear, the back of her neck, her hair. 

 

She hums her approval and Mike hitches her knee back into the crook of his elbow. Ginny moans at the change of angle and Mike feels a wave of smug satisfaction run over him. Still, he's got more work to do. It takes some maneuvering, but he finally gets his hand on her clit. Or he would, but her hand is already fucking there. 

 

He sinks his teeth into her shoulder for lack of a better reaction. She keens and her pussy flutters around him again. Now that he's paying attention, her elbow brushes against his ribcage as she rubs herself. 

 

"God, yeah. Are you getting yourself off?" He nudges her hand out of the way because as big of a turn on as it is, Mike's pretty sure he wants to be solely responsible for Ginny Baker's orgasms from now on. "C'mon, sweetheart, let me do that for you," he urges, the pet name falling off his tongue.

 

Usually, Mike's pretty careful about what he calls Ginny. It's Baker or rookie, though he'll probably have to ditch the second one by the time next season starts. Ginny is only when things are particularly serious and he needs her attention. Or, apparently, when she's got him hard and begging for release. He guesses he's lucky in that he hasn't let some little term of endearment, which had been filling up too much headspace since the All-Star break, slip on the field. If it's gonna come out anywhere, it might as well be while they're both in bed. 

 

When Mike's broad, callused fingers take up residence on her clit and sensitive labia, Ginny's not sure what to do with her own hand. The fingers and a good portion of her palm are smeared in her own juices. She settles for wiping them off on Mike's beard. It's not like he isn't familiar with the sensation. As a plus, she can curl her fingers around his jaw and tug him forward to occupy her mouth with his own. Because between the heavy weight of his forearm banded between her breasts, his stubby fingertips teasing her clit and his, frankly, ridiculous dick stretching her open, Ginny knows she's going to come sooner rather than later. And she really wants to do it with his mouth on hers. 

 

Mike, it would appear, has other plans, though. 

 

He turns just as her fingers skate against his cheek and he catches them in his mouth. All she can hear is a sloppy, wet suck in stereo. The obscene slurp of his tongue against her soaked fingers echoed by the wet slide of his dick deep in her cunt. Somehow, the curl of his tongue around the calluses on her fingers, the deep rumble reverberating through his chest into her back as he tastes her, sends Ginny right to the edge. She cranes around as much as she can without dislodging his fantastic cock from inside her and pulls her fingers out of his mouth. He chases and she intercepts. 

 

It doesn't matter that she can't quite drag in a full breath, not with his lips on hers, and his hips smacking against the curve of her ass, and his hand and dick making her see actual stars. 

 

Ginny feels herself come right up to the precipice and hovers there for one delicious moment before Mike's voice buzzes against her lips to egg her on and sends her hurtling over the cliff. 

 

Everything gets very small and tight, the world collapsing in on itself, for a few dizzying seconds and it's only when everything roars back into place that Ginny realizes it was all her muscles fighting to contract in on themselves to cope with the insane pleasure flooding her body. She shudders and groans into Mike's mouth. He just chants encouragement against her lips as his thumb keeps stroking her clit, wringing the last bits of her orgasm out of the sensitive nub. 

 

When Ginny's spit wet fingers entwine with his above her clit, Mike lets loose a string of curses that would definitely get his ass tossed in a game. Ginny seems to appreciate it if the extra roll to her hips is any indication. She guides his fingers, showing him a complex little pattern that has renewed moans spilling out of her lips. 

 

"You gonna come for me again, beautiful?"

 

It's not until she nods that Mike realizes he'd been planning something because suddenly, his mind is made up. He needs to see her face when she falls apart again. So, he rolls onto his back, pure satisfaction roiling in his chest at Ginny's whine of protest as his cock slips out of her heated cunt. After checking on the condom, he tugs at her arm until she gets the message and climbs aboard. She sinks onto him fast, the sexiest sound bursting off her tongue as he bottoms out inside her. She wriggles on top of him as she gets used to the new depth, and her tits bounce with the movement. Immediately, Mike reaches up and cups those perfect breasts, which isn't enough, which is turning out to be a trend where Ginny Baker is concerned.

 

To hell with his bad back. He leverages himself up so he's got a lapful of Ginny Baker and can bury his face in the valley between her breasts. Her skin tastes like sweat and a little like the laundry detergent his housekeeper uses. He never wants to taste anything else again, not unless it's coming straight from the sweet center between her legs. 

 

Unless he takes one of his hands off her body, which probably isn't going to happen, he can't thrust up into her with anything like the strength he wants to muster. Luckily, Ginny puts her perfectly toned body to work and picks up his slack. Her hips roll furiously and she sneaks a hand between them. Mike groans when he feels her fingers brush up against his dick before they settle across her clit. He tries to guide her rhythm, doesn't want to finish before he gets to watch her face while she comes, but Ginny's not having any of that. 

 

So, he busies himself sucking as many marks into the skin below her collarbone as he can before she notices. Knowing that she's going to carry his mark around for days is almost enough to send him over the edge.

 

"Gin," he pants into her neck. "C'mon, baby. You gotta come for me."

 

"Together," she gasps, feeling the stirrings of a second climax edge into her vision. He's so fucking big inside of her, especially at this angle. It's not going to take much, not if he keeps nibbling at her chest and pulling away to let the sting of his teeth fade in the cool air of the room.

 

One of Mike's big, powerful hands comes up to cradle the back of her head. He brushes a tender kiss across her cheekbone even as his other hand grips tight on her waist, fingers splayed out along her ribs. "'Course."

 

Ginny just manages to make eye contact, though she can hardly make out his hazel irises, his pupils have blown so wide. It's like a jolt of electricity leaps through her as their gazes lock and she's being flung back into the abyss. Dimly, she hears Mike grunt in his ear, his hips flexing a few times beneath her as she struggles to maintain any sort of rhythm. But the shockwaves rolling through her belly and her thighs and all the way in the tips of her hair are too much. She gives into the overwhelming sensations and lets herself be carried away on the tide.

 

When she comes back to herself, Mike's collapsed on the bed and she's sprawled out on top of him. He's still inside her, but his dick is softening and Ginny's pretty sure she should move before the condom's contents decide to make a break for it. But, his fingers are drawing abstract patterns on the delicate skin of her back and every time he breathes in, she's pushed ever so slightly higher. 

 

Ginny stays where she is. 

 

Mike isn't sure how long it's going to take him to regain equilibrium. Or what equilibrium even looks like after having his worldview so thoroughly rocked. What is the perspective of a man who got to fuck, and hopefully gets to keep fucking, Ginny Baker? He's spent so long so carefully not thinking about this that he can't even imagine. 

 

"Holy shit."

 

Ginny's muffled assessment sends Mike into a fit of laughter. He hauls her up his chest, hardly even cares as his dick finally slides out of her, and kisses her soundly. She has to catch herself on her forearms to keep her nose from crashing into his eye, but it's not as if she doesn't have the strength for it. 

 

They make out slow and sated for a bit until Ginny has to pull away to finally catch her breath. She rolls off him, settling onto the mattress but refusing to give up any skin-to-skin contact. Mike winds up with a Ginny Baker plastered against his side, her leg hitched up over his hip. He does have to nudge her knee out of the way to take care of the condom, but he moves it back into place when he's done. There isn't a thing he would change, especially not after he brushes his lips across the crown of Ginny's head and she sighs against his shoulder. 

 

He knows they should get up, probably take a shower, but the idea of crowding up against a naked, wet Ginny is definitely one that requires his full attention. And Mike is sex-sleepy and warm and also trapped under a beautiful woman. He's only got the brainpower for so many things at once. Much easier to melt into bed with the most extraordinary woman he's ever met and bask in the knowledge that he is one lucky son of a bitch.

 

Then, Ginny's stomach has to assert itself. 

 

The loud rumble cuts into their post-coital haze, prompting a chuckle from Mike and an indignant shove from Ginny. 

 

"What do I tell you, old man?" she asks, pushing herself semi-upright. Mike hardly pays attention, too enrapt by the play of golden morning light across her brown skin. Like they know he's staring, Ginny's nipples tighten. He smirks, even when she swats him and frowns in overblown disapproval. "Work hard, eat hard."

 

"Was that work for you, Baker?" he returns, levering himself up to follow her out of bed. "And here I thought it was just some good, clean fun." 

 

Ginny, who's hunting for the shirt she divested herself of, tosses him a dry look. "You and I both know nothing about that was clean."

 

"Right, that's for when we have shower sex later." Mike hands her one of his old practice jerseys rather than waiting for her to find her shirt. It's not that he doesn't know where it is—slumped somewhere between the wall and his bedside table—but he really wants to see her wear his name and number for the rest of the morning. At least until they get around to that shower sex. 

 

As her head pops out of the collar, she levels him with an assessing look. "Later? You telling me you're not about to kick me out on my ass?"

 

Honestly, where the hell did she get that idea? Mike sighs as he pulls on yet another pair of shorts. "Ginny, I'd be fine if you never leave."

 

And that is—

 

Well, true, for starters. 

 

(It's not that he means it literally. He's not asking her to move in, though he probably wouldn't shoot down the idea if she floated it. He wants her around in the more abstract, and emotionally significant, sense. Mike Lawson's been left by a lot of people in his life. He's not sure he would survive Ginny Baker doing it.)

 

Also, not as terrifying as it probably should be. 

 

Ginny, though. Ginny looks as though she's going to need a moment. 

 

She sits down hard on the edge of the bed. The bottom of his jersey pools atop her thighs and, God, does he want to fall to his knees and work his face between her skin and the fabric— Time for that later. Preferably when the wearer of that jersey isn't looking quite so thunderstruck. 

 

So, Mike sits next to her, not quite touching, and lets her work the problem on her own.

 

When she looks up at him, all big eyes and wild curls, he's ready for whatever she's got. What she's got is this: "What?"

 

He frowns. Okay, maybe not  _whatever_ she's got. "Ginny..." he says, though he doesn't have anything to follow. 

 

"You want me to stay?"

 

"Well, I'm not gonna tie you up or anything. Unless you're into that," he jokes, though she doesn't crack a smile. "But, yeah. 'Course I want you to stay."

 

"Really?"

 

"What d'you want me to say, Baker? No, I don't want you wearing my clothes and wandering around my house where we can fuck any time we want?" Something flickers in her face and Mike's brain catches up. He desperately wants to touch her, wants to prove how much he wants her, but also knows he has to wait for her to make up her mind. "I want whatever you wanna give me. I mean, ideally, that includes a lot more fucking. Like a lot. But," he softens, strives to lay everything out as honestly as possible, "I want more than that, too. It's your call, though."

 

Ginny's silent as she studies him. Mike thinks he can identify most of the flickers in her steady gaze, but even Ginny Baker has her secrets. It's easy to forget, when she's on the field, how young she is. She's freshly turned 24. She's got the world laid out at her feet. If that world happens to include a 36-year-old catcher, who's to say that she'll even notice? 

 

"You never let me make the calls," she finally says, trying to look suspicious, but he can hear the grin in her tone. 

 

"Yeah, on the field," he says, rolling his eyes. "Not my fault I've got the experience out there to pull rank."

 

"Out there but not in here?"

 

Mike considers. It's a valid question. "Out there, I'm the captain. For better or worse, my choices matter more. In here, it's just you and me. We've gotta be equal or there's no point, right?"

 

After an agonizing minute, Ginny nods. Mike feels all the anxiety that had wormed it's way into his gut rush away, leaving only that post-coital bliss behind. 

 

"You're just a big softie, aren't you?" Ginny grins and Mike knows. She doesn't tell him, not in so many words, but he knows she's not going anywhere. 

 

"Yeah, yeah," he gripes, standing and offering her a hand up. "Now, why don't we go feed the beast that you call your stomach? I'll even let you keep calling me a sap if you let me go down on you on the kitchen island."

 

That finally goads a real laugh out of her. "What about shower sex?"

 

"Yeah, we'll do that, too."

 

Grinning, Ginny drags him out of his bedroom. "Well, then. As long as shower sex is still on the agenda, I suppose I can pencil your proposal in."

 

"I'm sure it'll be a real hardship for you." 

 

"Oh, definitely," she replies, struggling to maintain her serious expression. 

 

If Mike makes it his mission to wipe that look off her face, he doesn't hear any complaints. 

 

(And later, if they got distracted on their way to shower by the prospect of the pool table, well. That was all on Ginny.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we have reached the end of the line on this particular fic. it was definitely a wild ride: new fandom and my first time posting straight up smut. everyone who read and left a comment or a kudos definitely made it worth it, so thank you!!
> 
> if you'd like to send me a prompt while I figure out my next endeavor, feel free to send me a message over on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com) or, of course, leave me a comment here!
> 
> one last time: this fandom is amazing and I've got such a crush on all of you <3


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